Counting
by karaokegal
Summary: House and Wilson fic, with a large dollop of Stacy. Post-infarction. Heavy-duty angst. 1400 words. Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation at LJ.


_Three days before the patient suggested it might be an infarction._

It's all about the numbers now. He lies in bed playing with hours and percentage of thigh muscle and days and dosages as though they might distract him from the pain. They can't. Nothing can; nothing ever will.

Moving hurts. Thinking about moving hurts. Thinking about how many minutes until his pill doesn't hurt quite as much, although it does make him worry about the supply and Cuddy's threats to cut him off unless he cuts down.

Two weeks since Stacy started smoking again. An hour and 28 minutes until he's supposed to take a pill and here's a very interesting number.

One. The loneliest number. The number of friends he has -- or make that alleged friends, since instead of just bringing House his drugs and then leaving, Wilson has decided to deliver a lecture, which is pretty rich under the circumstances.

Betrayals: a number in flux. He could almost forgive the asinine assumption that his leg pain was psychosomatic if the rationale for the theory weren't the extremely emotional conversation that took place between the three of them the night before the pain first presented. Oh, he was pissed all right, but he wasn't all _that_ broken up. They got drunk together and decided that none of it had ever happened, and if there was something beyond cave-man jealousy that hurt more deeply than he wanted to admit, it still didn't lead to the blood clot in his leg.

Wilson has the nerve to stand there looking typically sincere in a crisp blue shirt. Before the pain, he was James. House has shut down the part of his brain that still wants him to be. The ultimate betrayal isn't that Wilson has screwed Stacy however many times it has been (note to self: determine exact number) but the one time he's figured out that they've done it since then, which means Wilson refuses to condemn her.

"Lisa's worried about you."

"Fuck her!" One hour and twelve minutes. "If you have enough time in your busy sexual schedule. Were you planning to bang my girlfriend before or after you gave me my pills?"

"You do know what happens to junkies?"

"If I die now, can I avoid the rest of this conversation?"

"You're not going to die."

"Proving again that there's no god. Are you here to warn me about the paralyzed asshole or the dead-eyed dick?"

"Which one matters to you?"

"Which one matters to _you_?"

"Greg!"

House tries to glare loudly enough to let Wilson know he's lost his "Greg" privileges. The glaring is so painful it's as if the agony is no longer even associated with his leg, but it works.

"All right, House. You're in pain, more pain than you can imagine, and you think it's never going to stop."

"I owe every patient I ever sent away for drug-seeking behavior a letter of apology."

"But you can't keep taking the drugs like this."

"Watch me."

"Are you planning to ever have sex again?"

"Are you ever going to stop?"

House closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time his dick has been anything but another source of pain, whether it was the catheter in the hospital or the current rigmarole involved in getting to the bathroom and squeezing a few drops out. He tries to remember what sex felt like or why he ever cared about it. Nothing happens. They might just as well have cut it off for all the good it's doing him now, so Wilson's threats don't mean much.

"You can't keep this up."

"Because I can't get it up?"

"Because you won't be able to."

"Which matters to you exactly why?"

Now he's getting angry, letting his emotions come through, and he hates himself for it. Hates being reminded that it wasn't pain over _Stacy_ he felt when he found out. He knows and Wilson knows. They've always known and always decided not to do anything about it. When Wilson fucked Stacy, it threw the world out of balance.

"I'm worried about you."

"Fine!" he spits out, throwing his blanket out of the way. "If I can prove that you're wrong, that I can produce a genuine hard-on, will you give me the drugs and get the hell out of here?"

"That wasn't what I…"

"Will you?"

Wilson looks horrified, but nods, as if against his will.

House winces slightly. Trying to take down his boxers is still too much, especially since it's one hour and five minutes, but he can still reach in and pull it out.

_Hey buddy, remember me?_

He briefly wonders if this is going to work. It's been over a month, with those countless milligrams of opiates as well as the percentage of thigh muscle he never got to say goodbye to and the numbers he's been juggling in his head.

"What was it like?"

"What?"

"Fucking Stacy."

"You don't want to…"

"Yeah, I do. I want to know everything. Especially the last time. In the visitor's lounge."

"How did you…"

"The only things better than friends are enemies. The nurses hate my guts."

"She needed someone."

"And what did you need?"

He's getting hard. He can feel it. Through the pain. Through the anger. Maybe because of the anger. Nothing especially iron-clad, but something more than the useless fleshy appendage he's had for the last thirty days.

"I needed her to make me feel like I wasn't a failure."

"Because you can make a woman come."

"Sometimes it's all I've got."

He closes his eyes and he can see them. Stacy is mostly dressed, but her lipstick is smeared as she kisses Wilson. They're on the ugliest couch known to medical institutions and his pants are down as she straddles him. He has to reach under her blouse to get to her tits, but he can imagine what it feels like because he knows how it feels to fuck Stacy, exactly how wet and tight, especially when it's a time or place that's absolutely wrong.

Harder, but he needs more. Fine, then. Fuck the lies. Fuck the denial. Fuck Wilson's self-serving games and his bullshit marriages. Fuck his own uptightness and the fear of his father finding out about him.

House wants to fuck Wilson. Has for years. Wants to kiss those lips, mess up that hair, rip off the clothes and fuck him. Hard and deep. His hand is filling up as his cock swells. Wilson is watching him, has goaded him into this.

"You fucked her because you thought you couldn't have me?" he manages to grunt as his stroking increases. It's strange. The pain is still there, every bit of it, increasing as the last dose wears off, but just for the moment it doesn't matter.

"NO!"

"You're standing here watching me jerk off."

"I know."

"Admit it. Just this once. You were thinking of me when you were with her."

It hurts. Everything hurts. His hand is too close to his leg and it's making it worse, but he can't stop because something is happening here, something is coming back to life, and all it will take is for Wilson to tell the truth.

"Every time," Wilson says softly and House feels himself losing control, forgets everything except those words. _Every time_. He manages to finish, bring himself off, feels his whole body alive to the pain, but also just the hint of pleasure, and collapses into the pillow telling himself he couldn't possibly be crying.

When he's able to focus, he sees Wilson looking stunned, maybe even nauseated. He takes a pill bottle out of his pocket and throws it on the bed. House ostentatiously opens it up and takes one, heedless of minutes and hours. Numbers don't matter anymore.  
Everything has changed.

"I win," is the first thing he says.

Wilson comes over to the bed and pulls the blanket up, as if he can hide what's happened by covering up the evidence. It would be more convincing if he left without touching House's face in a gesture that might be confused for something therapeutic if House couldn't feel how sweaty Wilson's hand is.

"Yeah, House. You win."

He watches Wilson walk away, head bowed in defeat, but this isn't over and he'll be back.

Something else for House to count. One victory for him.


End file.
